Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth returned to the parlor with a composure she did not feel.
The corridor had been a sanctuary only because it was empty; the moment she crossed the threshold again, sound and expectation rushed in to meet her.
The room looked precisely as it had when she left it—sunlight slanting through the windows; the fire laid though not yet lit, her mother in her accustomed place like the presiding spirit of the household—yet everything in Elizabeth felt altered, as if the furniture had shifted by inches and the air itself had thickened.
She smoothed her skirts as she entered, willing her face into something tolerable. Her pride pricked; she was determined to keep her family from seeing how deeply she had been wounded.
Mr. Darcy turned at once. He had been standing near the mantel, one hand resting lightly upon the marble as if he were steadying himself against the press of noise.
At her entrance, his posture did not change, but his attention sharpened—his gaze fixed upon her with such quiet intensity that Elizabeth felt, absurdly, like her thoughts might be read as easily as words upon a page.
Something tightened beneath her ribs.
Do not look like a child who has been scolded, she warned herself. Do not look like a girl who has been refused what she believes is right. She lifted her chin and allowed a small smile to form, one she had practiced her whole life: bright enough to reassure, careless enough to discourage inquiry.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said lightly, her words sounding as if she had left the room to fetch a handkerchief, not to argue with her father about a fortune hidden in a crate. “You have not been abandoned, I hope.”
His eyes did not leave hers. “Not abandoned,” he replied, but his tone was not playful. It was careful—gentle in the way a hand might be gentle when touching a bruise. “Though I confess I wondered if I had offended your father by my haste.”
“You did not,” Elizabeth said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “My father is not so easily offended. He is…occupied.” Occupied by temptation. Occupied by fear and by the most dreadful sort of convenience. The thought burned, and she forced herself to swallow it down. “He will join us presently.”
Darcy studied her a moment longer, as if deciding whether to press.
Elizabeth saw the question in his eyes—saw, too, that he chose restraint.
His perception was astute. Still, the decision to desist with questions pleased her.
He did not treat her as fragile. He treated her as someone whose wishes mattered.
Across the room, the atmosphere had changed as well, though no one had spoken of it openly.
Mr. Bingley sat angled toward Jane with a devotion that would have been comical if it had not been so pointed.
Jane sat with her hands folded over her embroidery, her expression serene, but Elizabeth could tell she was making an effort at calm—listening to Colonel Fitzwilliam with equal politeness even while Mr. Bingley radiated possession.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, for his part, appeared entirely at ease.
He sat back in his chair as though he belonged there by natural right, one arm draped along its side, his other hand lifting a cup of tea with unhurried grace.
His attention was divided between Jane and Mary, though Mary’s contributions had a habit of turning any conversation into a lesson in whichever subject she was currently immersed, and Elizabeth could see that the gentleman was navigating it with the same skill he had used the night before—engaging without encouraging, smiling without surrendering.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose in a delighted stream. “—and I told Mrs. Phillips, of course, that it is most flattering to have such visitors, and she said, ‘Sister, you are the envy of the neighborhood,’ and I said, ‘Indeed I am,’ though I did not say it in so many words—”
The conversation had turned—as it so often did—toward Jane; yet for the first time, Elizabeth found her attention wandering elsewhere. Elizabeth listened, contributed where she must, and bore it with good humor. Yet she was conscious, in a way she had not been before, of what was absent.
When at last the discussion faltered and the company shifted, she rose and crossed to the window, more from instinct than intention.
Darcy followed a moment later.
Neither spoke at once.
“It seems,” she said at last, her tone light but not careless, “that we are destined always to speak of others.”
“For want of better subjects?” he asked.
“For want of courage, perhaps.”
He regarded her steadily. “I do not think you lack that.”
She met his gaze, and something in her expression altered—not retreating, but not wholly advancing either.
“No,” she said, almost to herself. “I suppose I do not.”
The moment lingered—unresolved, but not uncertain. And though neither spoke it, neither turned away.
Mr. Bingley leaned a fraction closer to Jane, the movement almost imperceptible, but Elizabeth saw it. “I hope you are not fatigued by last night’s entertainment,” he said, his smile too bright, too fixed. “You were obliged to converse with a great many people. It must have been tiresome.”
Jane’s smile was pleasant. “Not at all, sir. I enjoyed it very much.”
“I am relieved.” Bingley’s eyes flicked briefly and sharply toward Colonel Fitzwilliam. “It is fortunate we have so many agreeable individuals in the neighborhood. One cannot always say the same of…recent arrivals.”
The barb was clumsy, but its intent was plain.
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not so much as blink.
He sipped his tea and replied with a mildness that made Bingley’s jab seem childish by comparison.
“I am gratified to learn I am not tiresome, then. I should regret it exceedingly, for I have only just arrived and would prefer not to be scolded out of the county immediately.”
Jane’s lips twitched, the smallest hint of amusement breaking through her practiced calm. Even Mary looked up from her book, clearly amused by the lightness of his tone.
Bingley’s brow tightened. “No one is scolding you out of the county.”
“Then I am safe,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said cheerfully, though he had never suggested danger existed. “I am glad. I have grown quite attached already to the quality of your bread, Mrs. Bennet. Your cook deserves great praise.”
Mrs. Bennet preened at once. “Oh! Well, Mrs. Hill sees to everything. We are very respectable here, sir. Very respectable indeed.”
Mr. Bingley’s jaw worked slightly, as if he wished to say something else and could not find a manner of doing so without seeming ridiculous.
His gaze returned to Jane with renewed intensity.
“I had hoped,” he said, “that we might plan an outing—a walk, perhaps. The grounds at Netherfield are very fine. Miss Bennet should see them properly.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam set down his cup with a soft click. “A walk is an excellent idea. I am told Hertfordshire boasts several pleasant rises. Oakham Mount, for instance.”
Elizabeth’s pulse jolted. The name seemed to strike the air like a bell. She kept her face smooth through an effort of will.
Jane glanced briefly toward Elizabeth, almost as if she sought guidance.
Do not let them pull you like a ribbon between their fingers, Elizabeth thought fiercely, as if she could transfer the words directly into Jane’s mind. Do not let yourself be made uncomfortable because two men cannot bear the idea of sharing attention.
Mr. Darcy moved closer to Elizabeth’s position without speaking, an instinctive shift that placed him at her side, near enough that she felt a steadying presence. She tried not to take satisfaction from it. She failed.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Bingley said, a strained joviality creeping into his voice, “you have only just arrived. Surely you are not already acquainted with every local spot worth seeing.”
“I am not,” Fitzwilliam agreed readily. “That is why I am grateful for the guidance of those who are.”
The answer was elegant, innocuous—and entirely unhelpful to Bingley’s need to assert dominance. It was as if Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken Bingley’s challenge and set it aside without acknowledging it as a challenge at all.
Elizabeth would have laughed if she had not felt so raw.
Mr. Darcy leaned slightly toward her. “Are you well?” he asked quietly, his voice pitched so only she could hear.
Elizabeth’s smile held, but it felt brittle. “Perfectly,” she lied. “I am only…tired.”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She could feel it like warmth against her skin. “You need not pretend with me,” he murmured.
Her throat tightened. If I do not pretend, I shall fall apart in the middle of my mother’s parlor, she thought.
And worse—if she admitted anything, if she allowed even a crack in her composure, he might glimpse the truth.
She would be required to reveal the weight of it: the hoard, the law, her father’s refusal, the fear that their new courtship was being used as an excuse to delay what was right.
She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “I am not pretending,” she said softly, forcing steadiness into her tone. “I am simply…managing.” She glanced at Jane and her two suitors, hoping Mr. Darcy would attribute her manner to her sister’s predicament.
Understanding flickered across his expression as he followed her gaze. His lips pursed into a tight line and he shook his head. Relief filled her. There would be no need to explain yet.
While Mrs. Bennet continued to chatter, the competition between Bingley and Fitzwilliam sharpened into something almost visible.
It was not open hostility—such was not permitted in polite society—but a contest of attentions: who asked Jane the next question, who offered her the next compliment, who prompted her to speak of herself rather than merely receiving their admiration.
Jane answered each with kindness. She neither encouraged nor discouraged. It was very like Elizabeth’s sister, trying to think well of them both.